


Turnabout

by Anonymous



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Brother Feels, Connor and Murphy are big stupid idiots who love each other, Fluff, Incest, M/M, Murder, Starvation, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 20:44:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They know better than to steal from stores, to con good people out of what they can't pay for. They weren't raised like that. It tests them, yes. They walk quickly past stores late at night, collars turned up and sunglasses on, glancing at ads for dinners they haven't eaten in ages and trying not to listen to the unsettled discomfort brewing in their bodies."</p><p>Connor takes care of Murphy; when he can't anymore, Murphy takes care of Connor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnabout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princekaiju](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princekaiju/gifts).



> If food things are a trigger for you, proceed with caution, because there's some purposeful not eating enough going on here, although it has nothing to do with body image.
> 
> Written for Laine because she wanted MacManus porn and Murphy taking care of Connor for once. Blame her.

They've not been out shopping for about two weeks now and supplies are running low. Connor opens the door of their refrigerator and stares around inside. There's not much to stare at.

They've been trying to find extra jobs here and there, ducking from basement to basement and staying away from home for days at a time, but the scumbags they're after are recently released from jail and have only pennies to their name, and there's nothing to take except battered, worn furniture. The only things they manage to scrounge from these houses are half-finished boxes of cigarettes that they split and ration - their own boxes back home are running empty.

Connor's getting a little desperate. They know better than to endanger any of the friends they have left by going to them for help. (Murphy confessed to Connor, one night as they sat huddled under the fire escape of an apartment, that he was afraid that someone would kill Doc in retaliation for their work, and Connor had nodded and they never went back in person.) They know better than to steal from stores, to con good people out of what they can't pay for. They weren't raised like that. It tests them, yes. They walk quickly past stores late at night, collars turned up and sunglasses on, glancing at ads for dinners they haven't eaten in ages and trying not to listen to the unsettled discomfort brewing in their bodies.

Connor and Murphy have different ways of coping with the whole situation.

Murphy likes to do things with his hands, things that can take his whole concentration if he wants them to. He cleans their guns like a ritual, taking them apart and putting them back together, spilling gun oil and cursing as it drips onto his jeans and wringing them out with a towel and starting over. He cleans the tools of their trade because it's a small task with small details that he can get lost in, pour his beliefs into. Sometimes Murphy needs to stand up, to leave the flat and sit on the fire escape or walk around or even run up and down some stairs to burn off energy, but for the most part he's trained himself to sit still for longer than before.

As for Connor, he copes by taking care of Murphy.

He raids their food stock for something he can pull together for dinner and usually comes out with something that will at least sustain them for a while. He cuts bread into thinner and thinner pieces, fries meat, cuts up whatever they have on hand and turns it into dinner, and splits it two to one. He loads up the bigger portion of food and sets it by Murphy's side as Murphy works, then quickly scarfs down his own plate so that Murphy doesn't ask when he snaps out of his gun barrel. It's not particularly smart, but Connor comes to be very familiar with the pangs of hunger and if he can keep Murphy from feeling that too, he'll do everything that needs to be done.

Nights when Murphy makes dinner are both welcome reliefs and painfully guilty. Murphy cuts things mostly equally - sometimes he gives himself just a bit more, sometimes he gives the extra bit to Connor, but it's fairly even between the two of them - and Connor feels more filled than usual, his weakened system going so far as to tell him that he's full, when both mind and body are aware that he's really not. But he sees the faint gleam of confusion in Murphy's eyes when Murphy's stomach protests the emptiness of his plate, hears Murphy's body protest as he sleeps and Connor lies awake, staring at the ceiling and wishing that he'd just sent Murphy out to see if he could bum some cigarettes off of someone and made dinner himself.

Connor notices that he's feeling more and more tired lately. Murphy's not exactly bounding out of bed in the mornings, but Connor has to drag himself upright, rubbing sleep from his eyes with cold hands, and force himself to go shower. He looks for jobs in yesterday's newspapers, salvaged from bins - for names he recognizes in police reports, for headline stories, for anything that would give them a chance to go kill someone and reap benefits of their own.

God is disappointed, Connor suspects. But God never had to feed Himself and His twin brother on the barest remnants of savings and the little they managed to keep of Petrova's money, so He can go fuck Himself. 

They catch wind of a rich brothel owner in Lowell, about thirty miles from their current hideout in South Boston. Their car was long since taken - by police or thieves, they're not sure, but they know it's not there anymore - and they don't have the money for a cab, so Connor traces bus maps in the dark as Murphy keeps watch, stamping their feet against the cold. It would take them two hours to get to Lowell at night, two to get back. They can do that. 

The night of the hit, Connor paces around their old flat, running and rerunning plans in his head. Murphy sits at the table, scarfing down toast with one hand (they're out of everything except bread) and rechecking their bags with the other. Connor feels lightheaded and his chest aches; he hasn't felt nervous about a job in a long while, but they haven't gone this far out in a while either. So he paces, faster and faster, trying to work off some nervous energy, until suddenly Murphy's yelling something and Connor blinks his eyes open to see himself sitting on the ground. Murphy's face comes into focus above him, sharp panic punctuated by sharp breaths. One hand is resting against Connor's cheek, the other one around his shoulder, propping him up. Connor groans quietly and closes his eyes, turning his face a little into the heat of Murphy's hand.

"Christ, Conn, you're fuckin' freezing," Murphy murmurs softly, at complete odds with the panic roiling in his stomach.

"Feel cold," Connor mumbles in reply. 

"Are y'sick?" Murphy asks. He holds his palm up to Connor's forehead, then presses his lips to the same spot - lips measure temperature better that hands, that's what their Ma always said. "You don' feel warm."

"'m tired." And suddenly Connor realizes just how true it is. He's pushed himself past any vestiges of hunger, but he's now cripplingly aware of the exhaustion settled in his bones. He tries to push Murphy away, tries to stand up, but gives up halfway through and slumps back down. Murphy catches him easily.

"Jesus, you weigh fuckin' nothing." Murphy shifts to the side and hauls Connor up, ducking under his brother's arm to give him more leverage. He steers Connor over to the closest bed and carefully dumps him on top of the mattress. Conner shivers violently against the cold sheets. "Lift up your legs, I need t'get the blanket."

"Can't, we have a job," Connor murmurs, but he shifts his legs up so Murphy can pull the worn blanket out from under him.

"You're in no position to go doin' God's work tonight, Conn," Murphy says gently. He pulls off Connor's boots and tosses them under the bed, then pulls the covers over his brother's body. Connor wraps himself up tightly and Murphy rests one hand on his back. He winces as he feels Connor's ribs, even through the fabric.

"Don' go." 

Murphy looks up, startled. "What?"

"Don' go to Lowell tonight," Connor says from beneath the blanket.

Murphy opens his mouth, then closes it again. "Conn…"

"I said don' go," Connor says, a bit more forcefully. "It's dangerous withou' the both of us."

"I'd be fine," Murphy says.

"I swear t'God, Murph, you'd better not fuckin' go." Connor sounds almost like he's getting his strength back, just enough to kick Murphy's arse, but Murphy just shushes him and runs a hand along his back and Connor sinks back into the pillows.

"Go to sleep, Connor," Murphy replies. 

"Promise me you won' go," Connor demands.

Murphy just quiets him again and rubs Connor's back and runs fingers through his hair until exhaustion claims his brother. He knows better than to say anything at all, because he won't ever break a promise to Connor and he doesn't trust himself not to give in if he opens his mouth.

Once he's sure Connor's asleep, Murphy rises, pads across the room and triple checks his duffel bag. He looks between the two, then grimaces and pulls a long coil of rope from Connor's bag and shoves it into his own. Then he zips up the bag and slings it over his shoulder, casts one last look back at his brother, whose chest slowly rises and falls wrapped up in blankets. Murphy grabs his rosary off of its nail and puts it on, then, after a moment of deliberation, puts Connor's on as well. They're united in this in spirit, even if they can't be physically.

He slips out the door, down the elevator and out into the cold Boston night air. It's late, later than he would have liked, so he takes off through the back alleys and quiet streets to the North Station. It takes him a good forty-five minutes, but soon enough, Murphy is panting, leaning against a wall as the train cuts through the still air, wind rushing in his face and blowing his hair around. Murphy lowers his gaze, buys his ticket with money they'd pulled together just for this, and sits in the corner of the least crowded train car he can find.

That takes about an hour, and Murphy's heart never stops hammering in his chest at the thought of someone coming in and recognizing him.

He darts out of the train, bag held tight to his body, head bowed. It's warmer in Lowell than Boston - thank God - and a pleasant breeze whips at the edges of Murphy's peacoat. He shivers anyway. 

The brothel is thankfully close to the train station - only a few blocks away, just off of Middlesex and Central. Murphy hunches his shoulders forward and shoves his hands into his pockets and walks with as much determination as he can with half of himself missing.

The building is hard to miss. It's not as garishly decorated as some of Boston's seedier strip clubs, but Murphy recognizes it for what it is immediately. Girls in short dresses lean over a small balcony on the third floor, smoking, flicking ash into the night. An unintelligible yell comes from the window and one of the girls sighs, stubs out her cigarette, and goes inside. Murphy grinds his teeth.

He's not here to kill any of the prostitutes - they're not the ones who deserve to part with their souls. No, he's leaving that privilege to the owner and, if he's lucky, a couple of men who come in and abuse the sanctity of their marriages with strangers.

Murphy crouches behind some trees on the corner of the streets and quickly blesses himself and his  guns and the stupid fucking rope, then tosses his duffel bag into a bush, straps the guns to his chest, buttons up his peacoat, and goes up to the front door. It's unlocked. Murphy's not surprised.

There's a desk inside and Murphy fires a warning shot into the wall several feet above it before he even sees who's sitting there. A woman with long hair screams and dives under the desk, one hand reaching up to find a phone to call the police. Murphy shoots the phone cord too and the woman screams again. Murphy jerks around behind the desk and crouches down next to the woman, who backs away from him, wide-eyed. He holds one finger to his lips and meets her eyes and she nods frantically. He nods back and mouths, "where's your boss's office?" She points down one hall with a shaking finger. Murphy rises smoothly, guns at his sides, then rushes down the hall, past rooms filled with lewd grunting, around a corner to one finely polished door without a number. He doesn't guess that it's the boss's office until his boot is halfway connecting with the door, warping the lock until it pops and he's tumbling inside without any sort of plan of attack.

The man standing at the window whirls around, just in time for one bullet to graze his side and the other to lodge itself in his shoulder. He shouts, before iron pierces his stomach, his chest, the blood seeping into his pure white shirt, dyeing it crimson. The man falls to his knees, gasping and coughing up blood, and Murphy fights the desire to kick him. He doesn't, though. He just approaches the man, places the tip of his suppressor to his head, and puts the bastard out of his misery. The body slumps to the side, falling into its own brain matter, and Murphy winces a bit before pulling a couple of pennies out of his pocket. He nudges the boss over and places the coins over his eyes, then quickly murmurs about shepherds and rivers and souls and nomine Patris at Filii et Spiritus Sancti, and thinks belatedly that maybe he should have said that before the man's soul left his body. But it's too late for that now, too late for anything except to gather what he can and sprint back to the train station to grab the last line out. The clock in the office says ten eighteen, and he has fifteen minutes to run.

Murphy flips through the entire office, overturning every last sheaf of paper and tiny bag of white powder that Murphy is tempted, so tempted to shove in his pocket and sell in order to get Connor something decent, but he won't. He digs until he finds a locked metal box, shoots the lock open to find money folded up. Murphy grabs one wad of bills and shoves it into his pocket, then closes the box, tucks it under his arm, and hurries out of the room. 

Seconds tick by loudly in Murphy's head. There's no time to burst into any of the rooms, to grab the collars of men still wearing their work shirts as they drive into bored heat, to pull them into the hall and knock them off one by one. He would like to, but time wars against him. 

The girl at the front desk is nowhere in sight when he gets to the front door. He hopes that she just ran home, not to the police, but he can't afford to think about it now. The door still hangs open, so he slips through it and runs to the bush where he threw his bag. It's mercifully still there. Murphy shoves the metal case into the bag, deposits his guns on top, zips it up, and breaks into a sprint, letting his endorphins fuel his muscles. He gets to the station with seconds to spare, throws a couple of bills from the money he took from the case at the ticket booth, and huddles in a seat at the back of the train and hopes no one will come in and see him.

Murphy opens the bag once the train takes off toward Boston, pulling the case out again. He runs his fingers over the money, holds bills up to the light, checking for legality. They appear to be legitimate. Murphy sighs in relief. He pulls his and Connor's rosaries out from under his shirt and blesses the money, blesses his guns, blesses his safety and the fact that the train didn't leave early, thanks God for everything and prays that Connor will still be asleep in three hours.

As soon as the train gets back into Boston, Murphy walks to the nearest convenience store and loads up on all the food he can carry. He throws at least seventy dollars on the counter, ignoring the suspicious stares from the cashier, and grabs beer, bread, cigarettes, soup, even some chocolate that he knows Connor likes but hasn't had in a while. The bags load Murphy down on the way home and he stumbles back into the flat a little after one in the morning, dropping everything inside the door as he pulls it closed. The metal of the case clinks against gunmetal and Murphy knows he should clean his guns before he goes to bed, but his body carries him toward Connor instead. Murphy's relieved to see that his brother is still asleep. Less so to see the way Connor shivers under the blankets, even though they're pulled as tightly around him as possible. Murphy stands in the doorway for a moment, then pulls off his coat and his boots and his shirt and tosses them all on the floor. He pads over to Connor's bed and carefully drapes himself over the shaking body. Connor presses backward in his sleep, and his shivering dies away slowly as Murphy's body heat sinks into him. Murphy wraps one arm around Connor's shoulders, presses his forehead against Connor's neck, and falls asleep to the rhythmic rise and fall of their bodies in tandem. 

Murphy wakes up as the sunlight begins to stream into their flat. He groans against Connor's back and raises one hand to shield himself. It can't be later than seven in the morning - the light turns the walls gold as it hits, and Connor is still fast asleep, although not shivering like he was when Murphy got back. Murphy slowly rolls himself off of the bed, shifting slowly so he wouldn't wake Connor up. He slips out of their room, back to his bags, which lay sadly on the ground, their contents spilling out over the top. Murphy sorts through the things he thinks he can make an actual meal out of; he decides on soup because it's easy, and because he thinks Connor has the best chance of keeping it down. He digs through their dishes as quietly as he can, and stands stock-still, stirring broth and noodles together as little wisps of steam rise up and fade. Even though it's convenience store food, it still smells delicious, and Murphy's tempted to have some himself, but he buries that desire quickly. It's letting Murphy take too much that landed Connor in this situation, and Murphy's not about to exacerbate it.

He turns off their two-burner stove and carefully fills a clean bowl with soup, then grabs a spoon and carries it over to Connor's bed. Connor is still asleep, curled up on his side, so Murphy sets the bowl down on a chair and gently shakes him awake. Connor groans quietly and tries to retreat under the blanket, and any other time, Murphy would just pull it off of him, but now he is patient. "Connor. Conn, wake up."

"F'ck you," comes the muffled response.

Murphy chuckles quietly. "C'mon, Connor, sit up. It's morning, and y'gotta eat."

"Nothin' to eat," Connor replies, but his grip on the blanket loosens a little. Murphy takes advantage and tugs it back just enough to free Connor's face. Connor winces at the light, but doesn't protest.

"Sit up, I made you somethin'." Connor looks doubtful, but pushes himself up into a sitting position, then immediately lies back down, cursing. "What?"

"Got dizzy," Connor says between clenched teeth. 

Murphy frowns, then hooks one foot around the chair leg and draws it over to the bed. "Alright, hang on. Sit up again." He pushes Connor up, then quickly sits down behind him so that Connor can lean against him. Connor groans as the blood in his head readjusts itself, but he doesn't fight it. Murphy reaches over with his free hand and grabs the bowl of soup, then maneuvers it to rest on Connor's lap. "Eat."

Connor raises his eyebrows and glances back at his brother, but Murphy just avoids eye contact and jerks his head toward the bowl. Connor scowls a little, but raises the spoon to his mouth and swallows a mouthful of broth. After a few moments, he does it again, and soon he's forgoing it entirely, drinking straight from the bowl, pausing every now and then to make sure he doesn't choke on the noodles. Murphy rests one hand against Connor's shoulder, the other one tucked in his own lap. He alternatively stares at the line of Connor's throat as Connor swallows and the wall, equal parts relief and guilt clouding his mind. He hopes Connor will fall back asleep after this, and he won't have to tell Connor that he did go to Lowell until later. Maybe not even until tonight.

Once Connor finishes the soup, he sets the bowl back on the chair and sighs. "You want more?" Murphy asks. Connor shakes his head. "It's alright if you do, we've got more."

"'m full," Connor says honestly. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against Murphy's. Murphy smiles in spite of himself and squeezes Connor's shoulder. "Maybe in a bit."

"Alright." Murphy wraps his other arm around Connor's chest and squeezes, just for a moment, then releases his brother and stands up. Connor flops back down onto the bed, looking slightly more relaxed. "Go back t'sleep, Conn. It's fuckin' early."

Connor makes an agreeable noise, already rolling over back onto his side. Murphy pulls the blanket back up to his shoulders and Connor disappears under it again, a quiet snore coming only moments later. Murphy watches the rise and fall of the lump in the blanket for a little while longer, then goes back to the stove and helps himself to the rest of the soup. It's welcoming and warm and it heats him inside to out, and Murphy smiles as he cradles the mug he poured the rest of the broth into. He climbs out onto the fire escape and leans against the cold metal, sipping quietly and watching Boston wake up.

He goes back inside to grab a new package of cigarettes, then crawls back out, leaving the window just slightly ajar. Murphy likes the way a single trail of smoke cuts through the air, likes the dichotomy of smokey heat and clear cold air that working at the meat packing plant never afforded them because at this time of morning, they'd be on their way to church. Murphy thinks idly that he should probably head to confession for stealing the brothel owner's money, but he's not too worried about it right now. Surely God must recognize that feeding Connor was the most important thing, and Murphy reckons He'll cut him a bit of slack.

He chain-smokes his way through seven or eight cigarettes before Connor finally climbs out to join him. Murphy doesn't look at his brother, just shifts over a bit to give Connor some space. Connor sits down and pulls a cigarette out of the box. He lights it with Murphy's lighter and inhales greedily, then exhales with a hint of a pleased moan as the nicotine starts invading his system.

They sit in silence for a minute, side by side, until Connor says, "you went to Lowell last night."

Murphy bows his head a little. "Aye."

"I told y'not to go," Connor says.

"Aye, I know."

"But you went anyway."

"I had to."

"You didn't," Connor protests. "It was just a fuckin' job, Murph, we could've done it another night. It's not like they were gonna fuckin' close the brothel down."

"You know fuckin' well that that's not why I had t'go," Murphy snaps, finally turning to look at Connor. Connor bears dark circles under his eyes and a certain gauntness in his cheeks that makes Murphy's stomach turn. "You know why I went," more quietly this time.

Connor stares at his brother for a moment, then nods once. "Aye, I do." He turns back to the view in front of them and breathes in smoke and air together. "I wish you didn't."

"I wish you hadn' starved yourself for me," Murphy replies quietly, and tension flares silently, baring the truth they both know but never spoke of.

"It's not like tha', Murph," Connor says after a beat, but Murphy just shakes his head.

"It is, though. Or it was. We got fucked with the money, and we couldn' drag ourselves out, so you went an' nearly starved yourself to death."

Connor winces and sighs and sucks his cigarette down to the filter. He grinds it out against the fire escape and lets it fall down, down four stories. Murphy hands him another one without a word and Connor accepts it, lighting it silently.

"You know why I did it," Connor says.

"Aye, but you shouldn' hav–"

"Fuck you I shouldn' have," Connor says, irritated. "You think 'm just gonna let my brother suffer like that?"

"When it's killin' you, yeah!" Murphy says loudly. Connor twitches next to him. "When you're destroyin' yourself, Conn, then you have to know you're doin' something wrong."

"I wasn't gonna let you go hungry," Connor murmurs. The fight's mostly gone out of him by now.

"Well, 'm not gonna let you go dead," Murphy counters firmly. "You tried to save my arse, I'm jus' returning the favor."

Connor's shoulders slump a bit. Murphy's expression softens.

"'m sorry, Murph," Connor whispers. 

"Myself as well," Murphy replies. He reaches over and tugs Connor toward him, draping one arm around his brother's shoulders. They smoke together in silence until their fingers go numb from the cold. Murphy stands up and pockets the cigarettes and the lighter, then pulls Connor up and helps him through the window. Connor stumbles a bit, still a little disoriented, but manages to sit down fine. Murphy regards him carefully. "You want to go back to sleep?"

Connor shakes his head. "Doubt I could."

"Y'should try," Murphy says. 

"I should plan…" Connor muses, glancing around the room.

Murphy sighs. "Absolutely not. We've got money, Conn, we're good f'r a few weeks at the very least. Go to fuckin' bed."

Connor shoots him a dirty look, but he looks far too tired to argue, so he just says, "in a bit. Now fuck off an' go shower, you smell like gunpowder and whores."

Murphy smacks the back of his head, but grins and goes off to battle their flat's inability to provide hot water. It takes a while for it to warm up, but when it does, he just stands in the spray and closes his eyes and lets heat wash down his body, cleansing him of the night before. When he gets done and dries himself off, Murphy goes back into the other room and sees Connor curled up on himself, fast asleep in the chair. Murphy hauls Connor back to bed and throws the blankets over his sleeping frame, then crawls into his own bed, wraps a towel around his pillow, and quickly falls asleep as well.

Murphy wakes up to the sound of plates clinking together, of water running and a slow boil. He hums contentedly, eyes still closed, until consciousness claims him fully and he realizes that it must be Connor who's up and making food. Irritation flashes through Murphy - at Connor for not just letting him take care of things, at himself for sleeping for long enough that he didn't wake up in time to make something else - and he throws the covers off, rolling out of bed and stumbling over to where Connor is. His brother doesn't notice him at first, seemingly entranced by the waft of steam coming from a pot full of boiling noodles, until Murphy grabs his arms - too skinny, his hand closes almost halfway around Connor's biceps and that's unnerving - and pulls him back to sit down again. Connor struggles as hard as he can, shouting and trying to pull away, but as hard as he can isn't very hard and eventually he gives in to Murphy's strength. He sits hard in the chair, glaring up, and says, "the fuck'd you do that for?"

"You don't fuckin' need to do everything, Conn," Murphy says, turning to stir the noodles. "You gotta let me do some of it."

"You were sleeping," Connor grumbles. "I'm a fuckin' grown-arse man, I can feed myself."

"Obviously not," Murphy does not say. Instead, he just keeps stirring, drawing the noodles out of the water every now and then until they're ready. Halfway through, Connor gets bored and wanders off in the direction of the beds. Murphy loads up a bowl with noodles and tosses a fork in it, then wanders through the doorway to find his brother. His brows draw in confusion, because Connor's not in either of the beds, or the shower, or even sitting in one of the chairs staring out the window. The window is slightly open, and Murphy's frown widens a little. He sets the bowl down on the chair as he approaches the window, and has just figured out that Connor definitely isn't outside either when a blur darts out from the corner of his eye and something tackles him onto the bed. Murphy shouts and blindly fights back for a moment, until he hears the bright sound of his brother's laughter and breaks out into a grin. He flips himself onto his back and sees Connor's matching grin hovering above him as he tries to pin Murphy down to the bed. But Connor's still weakened from weeks of not taking care of himself, and Murphy has the upper hand - he easily flips them both over until he's straddling Connor's stomach, sitting on his hips and pinning his wrists to the bed. Connor, to his credit, fights valiantly, but in the end they're laughing too hard to do anything except enjoy the feeling of genuine laughter, not tinged with worry for the first time in a long while. He presses one hand against Connor's chest, then leans over and grabs the bowl of noodles and sets it on Connor's stomach.

"The fuck're you doing?" Connor asks, tucking one arm under his head and not looking too concerned.

"Makin' sure you get fed." Murphy twirls the fork through the noodles, then holds it over Connor's mouth.

Connor makes a face, but accepts the bite anyway. "Can fuckin' feed myself," he mumbles in between chews. "Fuckin' adult, Murph."

"Not that you're actin' like one," Murphy teases and Connor smacks him lightly on the arm, but they're both smiling. Connor lets Murphy feed him another bite, and Murphy's hand slips from Connor's chest up to his neck, thumb gently tracing along the vein on the side of his throat. They work through the bowl like this, bite by bite, heat conducting through their skin, until the bowl is empty and the fork scrapes through condensation and Connor's eyes are closed, his breathing a little fast, and Murphy's own eyes are growing darker by the minute. He runs his fingers again over Connor's throat, then up to his cheek, turning his brother's head so he can press their lips together. Connor's already compliant, but Murphy can feel him relaxing even more as their breathing evens out and runs together. Connor tastes like cheap pasta and cigarettes and a hint of toothpaste and Murphy savors that taste because he hasn't had the chance to share it with his brother in a long while. Stress and work took their toll on the brothers, making them irritable to the touch, but now. Now they're safe, now they have a safety net, and food, and each other, even if they're a little worse for wear.

Murphy breaks the kiss to trail down to Connor's ear. Not biting yet, as he has done in the past, just trailing down, relearning the path from earlobe to pulse point to the jut of Connor's collarbone that's far sharper than it should be. Connor hums pleasantly as Murphy runs his hands up under Connor's shirt, tracing over each prominent bump of rib up to a too-tight sternum, and he feels Connor's pulse thrumming under the skin, vibrantly alive under the gaunt skin. Murphy nips gently at the skin of Connor's collarbone and he feels Connor's pulse jump up a couple of beats. Murphy smiles against warm skin and moves back up his path, leaving gentle bites up Connor's neck - nothing frenzied, no dark, angry marks surrounded by the imprints of teeth, no sweat-slicked struggles. Not yet.

Murphy reaches down and pulls at the hem of Connor's shirt, and Connor sits up a little so that Murphy can slide it over his head. He does the same to Murphy's shirt, scratching lightly over the ink marring Murphy's chest, then down his forearms and the celtic cross, to "aequitas" emblazoned across his right trigger finger. Murphy twitches a little and their kiss this time is harder, mouths opening at the insistence of teeth and tongues and hands that lose their patience and start fighting for grip because it's been so long since either of them felt like they could have this. Murphy reaches down, past Connor's stomach to his waist, tugging at the thin fabric until Connor's hips and cock and thighs are bared and then there's nothing but skin, marked by scars and time, but it's undeniably Connor and Murphy wants to taste them all.

So he does. He shuffles down to kneel between Connor's legs and kisses the contour of Connor's hipbone, licks at the scar winding down his leg, bites at the junction of his leg, and now Connor's the one getting twitchy. He's hard already, cock lying against his stomach, but he doesn't push Murphy, not yet. Murphy's got that singular concentration in his eyes, the one when he focuses on one thing and the rest of the world fades away, and it's warm in Connor's chest as well as deep in his stomach.

Then the moment passes and concentration is replaced by heat in Murphy's eyes. His breath dances around the skin of Connor's cock for a split second before his fingers close around it, squeezing gently and pulling upward. It's dry, too dry, but Murphy's not going too hard, so Connor grits his teeth and relishes the drag. Murphy strokes him slowly, watching Connor's face, the tendons in his neck as the shift under the Blessed Mother, the way his breath hitches in his chest every time Murphy's wrist twists. 

"Should still be something by the bed from las' time," Connor grunts, motioning toward his bed. Murphy nods and reluctantly pulls away, jumping off his bed and kneeling down beside Connor's. There are a couple of small bottles of lube down there, tucked behind an old shirt, and Murphy grabs them both, just because it's been a while and he'd rather be safe than limping. He tosses them to Connor, who pops the top on one and slicks his hand up, stroking himself faster as Murphy settles back between his legs.

"That better?" Murphy asks, dripping a bit of lube onto his own hand and taking over for Connor again.

Connor closes his eyes and breathes out through gritted teeth. "Yeah. Tha's better."

Murphy braces his left hand on Connor's hip and strokes him faster, reveling in the little twitches of Connor's hips. "You wanna go like this?" 

"No, 'd rather fuck," Connor breathes. "Haven't had you in a long time."

"Shit came up," Murphy murmurs. "And you weren' feelin' yourself."

"Aye, I know. But I am now, more than before," Connor says. He reaches up and grabs onto Murphy's biceps. "C'mon, Murph."

"Alright, calm your arse," Murphy says, elbowing one of Connor's legs fondly. "You think you're okay to…" He trails off and jerks his head a little.

Connor doesn't even take a second to consider it. "I'd rather you did."

Murphy raises his eyebrows. "What, really?"

"Yeah." Connor offers no explanation beyond that, just lets his head tip back a little more, eyes closed.

"Alright." Murphy shifts up onto his heels and pulls his own pants off as steadily as he can, then tosses them off to the side with Connor's. "You sure?"

"Fuck's sake, Murph, it's not like I've not taken it up the arse before," Connor bites out, frustrated. "'m not gonna break. Jus' want… Want to feel you, f'r a change. Alright?"

Murphy ducks his head a little and nods. "Yeah, Conn." He finds the lube again, spreading it over his fingers, then nudges Connor's legs a bit wider and lets his hands wander down until his fingers are pressing at muscle. Connor hasn't bottomed in a while and he's too tight to be comfortable at first, but Murphy rubs his stomach and thigh soothingly as he works in one finger, then two, then three and twists them the way Connor's face twists in pain at each new burn, but it's a good sort of pain. It's not the pain of not eating for three days, or the pain of the bite of bullets and knifes; it's deeper, and so much more delicious.

Murphy preps him for a little while after Connor feels he's ready, but it's a compromise. Connor wants Murphy now, and Murphy wants to ease Connor in for as long as possible until Connor snaps his neck in frustration, so they suppose quietly in their heads that it's the right time when Connor whines low in his throat and Murphy doesn't squeeze his hip in apology. Instead, he pulls his fingers free and slicks his own cock up - he's been paying so much attention to Connor that he hadn't realized how hard he is until the chill of lube shocked the heat out of his system, but it's a good sort of chock and Murphy moans in half-surprise, drawing a muted echo from Connor. He leans down, his face hovering over Connor's, and murmurs, "you ready?"

Connor rolls his eyes. "You're not going to break me, Murphy. Get on with it."

"Just makin' fuckin' sure," Murphy shoots back, but he sits back and lines himself up with hands that shake only a little, then rocks forward slowly, burying himself just a bit deeper in Connor each time. Connor shuts his eyes and grits his teeth, hands sliding from Murphy's arms to fist in the sheets, but he doesn't tell Murphy to stop. He just lies back, chest rising and falling rapidly, as Murphy slowly but surely seats himself inside his brother. Murphy lets his head fall forward, hair falling into his eyes as he rubs slow circles on Connor's stomach again, waiting for Connor to adjust.

After a couple of long moments, Connor releases his grip on the bed sheet and nods. "Alright, 'm good."

Murphy makes an agreeable sort of noise and reaches down to grip Connor's hips tight. He pulls back a little, then rolls forward, tests his rhythm a few times until he finds that familiar settling feeling, thrumming through his body as Connor breathes in his exhale. Murphy lets out a slow breath, then steadies himself a bit and drives forward a bit harder, a bit faster each time. Connor's hands find Murphy's arms again, then his shoulders, and suddenly his legs are bent awkwardly around Murphy as Murphy leans down, claiming his mouth like he's claimed the rest of Connor. Murphy bites Connor's lip hard, drawing out a moan that is more surprised than anything, then moves down to Connor's neck again, biting in all the places he kissed before as he drives into his brother. One hand tangles in his hair, tightening and tugging, but it just spurs Murphy on. He grabs his own handful of Connor's hair and jerks his head to the side, sucking at a spot just over the Blessed Mother's head like a bruised halo. Connor's hips jerk up and back, grinding down against Murphy, so Murphy does it again, fingers twisting hard through light hair and _yanking_ , and swallowing Connor's moan before it can get too loud. Connor tries to grab at Murphy again, so Murphy catches his wrists and pins them over his head, grinning triumphantly, eyes dark and gleaming. 

"Caught you," he murmurs. Connor shivers. Murphy pushes Connor's wrists together so he can hold them both with one hand, then slides the other in between them so he can close still-slick fingers around Connor's cock. Connor's whole body jerks up into Murphy's hand as he centers on those two points of contact, one trapped above his head and one working its way below. Murphy drags his thumb over the slit of Connor's cock, collecting the moisture there, and Connor's entire body tightens. He's surprised at how over-sensitive he is, but he supposes going for weeks without a touch like this makes him desperate. Connor immediately turns his head to the side. He doesn't want to give Murphy the satisfaction of seeing desperation in his eyes.

Murphy notices immediately. His hand slows to a half on Connor's cock and he reaches up to grab Connor's hair again, jerking his head so he can watch Connor's face. "Stay here with me, Connor."

Connor shivers again. "'m still here."

Murphy tilts his head to the side a bit. "C'mon, Conn. 'm yours, an' you're mine. Don' hide things from me."

"'m not hiding," Connor protests. "'m just… Surprised at how much I needed this, okay?"

There's a split second of surprise in Murphy's face, then a couple of seconds of fondness, and then he trades it all for a devious grin. "Guess I better give it to you good then, huh?"

Connor doesn't get the chance to answer because suddenly Murphy's hands are on his hips again, digging in hard, and he's fucking Connor for all he's worth, quiet grunts forcing their way out of him. Connor nearly shouts at the suddenness of it all, then bites down hard on his lip to keep the more embarrassing sounds in. Murphy shakes his head, laughing breathlessly, and says, "let it out, Conn."

So Connor does. He ignores the flush that glows across his face and lets Murphy draw ragged moans out of him that he would at any other time be doing his best to silence. But Murphy hasn't heard Connor moan in a long time, and Connor hasn't heard the breathy grunts that Murphy lets out when he's thrusting especially hard, and it mixes together so well, between sweat and skin and hair plastered to their foreheads as they press their lips together again, biting and growling and claiming.

It doesn't take long for either of them to get close. Tension builds up in their shoulders, ready to release as soon as one of them gives. And it's not a competition, except it completely is, with Murphy trying to draw the loudest sounds that he possibly can out of Connor, and Connor trying to hold on until Murphy's lost himself to let go. Connor mumbles something about Murphy not playing fair when Murphy's hand wraps around his cock again, but it's blindingly heated and slick and fast and rough and he gives in, lets weeks of tension crash out of his system all at once. He shouts, which is so far from usual that he surprises himself - it could have been a curse, or Murphy's name, or just a few syllables of sound, he's not really sure, all he knows is that his chest vibrates with the effort and Murphy feels it as he latches teeth onto his neck and sucks at the skin over his vocal cords.

Murphy follows a little later, long enough to drag the last few spasms from Connor because he's hunched over, face buried in Connor's neck, moaning long and low as his own cock twitches hard and he feels time and stress and anger drain from him, exploding in dark spots across his vision and it's all he can see for several long moments before the pleasure dulls to a gentle ache. He slumps forward a little on top of Connor, their chests pressed together despite the mess. Connor runs one hand through Murphy's hair and Murphy hums quietly, wrapping one arm around his brother's chest. They stay that way until Connor starts getting twitchy and Murphy carefully pulls out, grabbing the towel from his shower earlier that day to clean them both up before collapsing back on top of Connor. Connor curses and pretends to shove him off, but they shift until they can lie comfortably on the bed, half on damn sheets and half on each other.

That night, Murphy feeds Connor the chocolate he bought off his stomach, and Connor licks the melted bits clean.

 


End file.
